MicroHorror

Rick turned his head and spat; the air in this place tasted as bad as it smelled.

“What the hell are they doing up there?” he asked.

Hank, who was taking yet another break, shook his head in response.

“Man,” he said, speaking around an unfiltered Marlboro, “the first thing they shoulda told ya was don’t ask.” Hank smoked constantly. He said it helped him deal with the smell on these cleanout jobs. Never mind, thought Rick, that it added one more unwholesome scent to the bouquet of stink permeating the sewers.

As he stood knee-deep in acid-green water, jamming a hooked pole up into feeder pipes, Rick wondered if the money was worth enduring this foulness, but the money was good. It should be–GENETEDYNE was the biggest privately funded lab in the world. Rick had never heard of them, except to see people complain there was no oversight. He didn’t really care, though. Scientists were people too, and private contractor work paid a hell of a lot better than he’d made as a caretaker. Still, he thought–as his hook encountered the blockage again–what were they flushing?

“There’s something big stuck up there, Hank. Give me a hand.”

The big man stood up from his place against the wall, pitched his smoke into the water, and added his pole to the mix. It was crowded with the two of them jostling for position inside the ten-inch pipe, but Rick hoped that one of their spikes would catch, they’d get the works free, and then they could knock off.

In the next moment, what had started out as a mundane, disgusting day in the sewer turned into a full fledged nightmare. Something in the dark, sludge filled pipe above their heads began screaming. The sound was like nothing Rick had ever heard. It was a wheezy, garbled sound. Whatever it was, it sounded pissed off.

Hank walked under the pipe and turned his face to the ceiling to peer inside. He shone his Maglite up into the depths.

“What the fu– ”

The thing cut off his words as it slid out of the hole and landed on Hank’s forehead. Hank screamed. Rick screamed. The thing screamed louder, and began tearing hunks from Hank’s face with teeth that looked like broken sewing needles. Rick couldn’t move; he was galvanized with shock, disbelief, and a weird, panicked curiosity.

“Get it off!” cried Hank, flailing around, trying to keep his balance. “Get it off!” He whacked the skinny green-furred hand of the monster with the flashlight. It let out another high-pitched keening wail, and bit down again. When it had raised its head, Rick saw a mashed-in, simian nose, covered with face blood. There was a queer, malevolent look of intelligence in the muddy brown eyes that stared wall-eyed from either side of the thing’s conical head. It raised its skinny, rudimentary arms and raked three scaly fingernails across Hank’s shoulder. Hank bellowed through a mouthful of gore.

Rick came to life–he swung his spiked pole around like a baseball bat. The hook caught the thing’s hindquarters. It screeched, whipping its fish-like tail back and forth, struggling to get free. A moment later, it dropped off the pole and into the water. Rick jabbed it again, again and again until it stopped moving.

When he pulled the body from the water, his heart nearly stopped. Amongst its trailing lump of black intestines was a red-gold translucent sac full of eggs. Even in the dim light of the sewer, Rick could make out movement in the tiny orbs. Eggs were falling freely from a rip in the pouch, and floating away into the river.

He pulled his cell phone out. The first call he made was to get an ambulance for poor, bleeding Hank. Next, he’d snap a photo of the carcass and send it to their employer.

For once, it was someone else’s turn to take care of the shit.

I am a deviant.

A qualifier: I’ve never had, nor will I, anything to do with kids, animals, or the dead, but name the craziest, most obscene thing that consenting adults can do to each other, and I’ve been there. There’ve been seventy-two-year-old grannies who squealed like rabbits when they came, and amputees who tried to walk afterward. I’ve had the clap six times and gonorrhea an even dozen. My body is a map of minor scars. These are my trophies.

Am I a sexual addict? Perhaps, but my desires have never interfered with anything else in my life, and I don’t watch TV. Sex is my entertainment, and my laboratory. It’s how I learn who I am.

One thing that may surprise you is that when you take society’s stereotypes about beauty off the table, it’s incredibly easy to get laid.

So, when I saw the chance to push the borders once more, I took it.

The Craigslist ad read “Sexual Immolation. Serious inquiries only.” I’d heard of death by immolation, of course. Those fanatics that doused themselves in gas to protest for free speech, or against it… something. But what in the hell could this be? Those five words had me so excited I got a raging hard-on just dialing the number.

When I arrived at the apartment three hours later, a voluptuous, slightly homely woman answered the door without a stitch of clothing on. She introduced herself as “Ifritia.” A fake. Who cared?

There was no small talk. We knew what we were about. All there was between us was desire, and the willing flesh of a willing partner.

She lit some candles and began to dance to unheard music. In her movements I saw all the sensuality she would ever need. I wanted her as I hadn’t wanted anyone in years.

Though her movements were elaborate, it didn’t take long for her to conclude and pull me down to the floor, where she gave me all the welcome I needed. The first thing I noticed was how hot she was inside. It was a little uncomfortable, but the rest of the sensations more than made up for it. As we moved together, I heard thick, foreign chanting on her lips. The heat intensified, and so did the pleasure. I’d never been with another woman who reacted so naturally, so instinctively to every move I made. She sped up. I sped up. I felt the point of no return approaching, but something in the low quick words she continued to mouth was holding it off. I was on the perigee of climax for almost twenty minutes. Every muscle in my body was twitching. The spasms of my overtaxed muscles spurred her on to greater throes of her own. We were going faster and harder than I’d ever experienced.

And the heat. It had become unbearable. It felt like I was about to come apart. But stopping would’ve been tantamount to suicide.

Nothing in my thousand trysts had compared to what I was feeling now. Without warning, my back burst suddenly into flame. It spread out in to cover my whole body, as if my sweat were gasoline.

Ifritia was burning too. Her brow was licked with tiny tongues of flame which set her mousy brown hair ablaze. Her cheeks, still contorted with pleasure, were turning black. My nerves were on fire from the outside, and exploding from the inside.

The fire grew. The bed burned. We burned. And the final moments approached. Our skin was melting together in places. Still we kept on. There was nothing else.

Her breath in my ear quickened. We came together.

The climax was an inferno. The bed, the room, the world was fire.

The last thing I saw on this earth was the face of my lover, now a charred and peeling mask, still mouthing the words “love” and “love” and “love.”

The rest was ashes.

Arturo stared across the gulf. Today was the day.

He heard a low whistle from behind him, and turned.

“You sure about this, Artie?” asked Wallace, who’d been Artie’s closest friend since they were born.

Nodding, Arturo moved away from the edge of the wall, and started backing up into position. “It’s now or never,” he said. “I can’t go on living here.”

“Why not?” asked Wallace. “There’s still plenty of food.”

Arturo looked at his friend, studying those features so much like his own.

“Not for long,” he said. “Besides, I’m positive we’re meant for so much more than this. All we do is eat, and… and breed.”

“You’re not helping your case,” laughed Wallace. “Breeding alone…”

“I’ve made up my mind,” snapped Arturo. “Get out of my way.”

Before his friend could reply, Arturo rushed headlong at the edge and beyond. With all his strength, he soared up, and away, leaving his home, and the only life he’d ever known, behind.

It was working. He’d timed the currents perfectly. Arturo was buoyed along, loving the feeling of space rushing by his skin, and knowing that, all too soon, the forces would start working to stop him.

No sooner had he formed this thought than he noticed a Hunter closing in on him. Huge and deadly, if it even touched him, he was done for. It would destroy him so thoroughly, it would be as if he never existed at all.

Arturo surged forward, diving and twisting. His body tightened, becoming streamlined. The Hunter passed above him, slowed, then turned and took up the pursuit.

Panic filled Arturo. Faster. Must go faster. He willed himself to speed up. His destination loomed ahead; if he could reach it before the Hunters, he’d be in the clear. The space behind him seemed to practically vibrate as the Hunter drew closer. Arturo knew it must be sending out signals, drawing more of them to join the fray. He refocused his attention to the island. Just a second more, half a second. The Hunter was extending its tendrils. A single touch and it would have him.

Arturo’s body smacked hard into the surface of the island. It shuddered beneath him as he made himself flat, spreading out as thin as possible. The ground beneath his body twitched. It felt his presence. Above him, Hunters went by without paying him another moment’s attention. He was safe.

Slowly, relishing the feeling of the ground yielding to his wishes, Arturo began to sink into the surface. The cell was spasming now, sending off its own signals, trying desperately to call the Hunters back–but Arturo had been more than lucky, he’d been perfect. Bonded as he was to the receptors, no messages were getting in or out. Still he sank deeper, drawing nourishment from the destruction he was causing. The last microns gave way with a shaking, silent scream, and he was inside.

Taking his time, Arturo began to eat. The cell’s spasms quieted to a slow pulse, as if the dying host was sobbing.

When he was full, he’d begin to breed, filling up the hollowed spaces of his host and, when there were a thousand Arturos under his command, this infection would really start to get interesting.

Edgar collapsed back against the wall. He was so close–inches, really, but those inches made all the difference.

His shoulders ached. Straining against his bonds had used up the meager energy that he’d been able to muster. It had been fourteen months since the Duke had jailed him, and Edgar had spent every minute since then in agony.

He stared at the heavy, wooden cell door. It was barely visible in the waning light from the minuscule barred window above them. Edgar cursed the Duke again; fourteen months and counting for an imagined slight.

The Duke’s daughter had smiled at Edgar when crossing the street. Only smiled. Edgar, who had been grooming a horse at his stable, had smiled back. The Duke had witnessed this exchange and, in a moment of pique, had accused Edgar of stealing from his customers.

Sweat pooled on Edgar’s lip. He licked the moisture greedily. The guards wouldn’t be offering him any water for another two hours. He made another attempt to close the gap, and still he came up short.

His cellmate groaned. Maximilian couldn’t talk. Charged with blasphemy, the Inquisitors had crushed his tongue flat in an iron vice. Maximilian, driven insane, now communicated only by moaning. At first Edgar had been sympathetic, but after a few days the constant slavering monotone of his only companion was eating away at his sanity.

Edgar slept. He had fitful dreams–those had changed, too–his dreams. When he’d first arrived, he had dreamed of riding his horse across the valley, of fishing in the brook, of life’s simple pleasures. Now, his dreams were always the same: the guards had left his leg chain unlocked. It was a simple dream, but all the worse for that very reason. He’d woken countless times expecting to see the manacle gone. Feeling it very much intact always crushed his spirits anew.

The next morning he awoke, and this time something was different. For whatever reason, he saw the cell illuminated in the morning light, and knew that today he would reach. Once he’d captured those last inches, he would be free.

Carefully, Edgar stretched out along the floor. The stones were sweating in the morning sun, and his dirty tunic was quickly soaked through. He crawled closer to his goal.

Finally, reaching the end of his chain, he found his goal still within reach–Maximilian, still asleep, lay closer than ever before. Keeping absolutely quiet, Edgar laid his callused palm across the mute, moaning bastard’s throat, and began to squeeze. The man flailed, but his death throes sounded the same as any of his other plaintive sounds, and no one came to his aid. Edgar added his other hand, and felt the man’s neck spasm hard beneath his grip and grow still.

Relieved tears streamed down Edgar’s face. It was silent in the cell–silent. He was finally free of the incessant, grating moaning.

Now he could concentrate on the damnable guards.

Life sign readings remained negative as the two men made their way through the strange, ruined Martian settlement. Doorways yawned into dark, angular structures.

“It’s all so empty, sir. It gives me the creeps,” said the young scientist.

“Survival of the fittest, Edgar,” said Oderson. “That’s what you’re seeing here.”

His assistant shook his head. “I don’t know, Doctor. That seems like a callous way to look at it; the Martians, I mean …”

Oderson cut him off, “Survival, Edgar. Humans are the dominant species, and we’ve earned the right to prosper.”

“But we destroyed our own planet, sir.”

Oderson cocked an eyebrow. His assistant was bordering on impudence, but he decided to defeat the argument rather than simply pull rank.

“Edgar,” began Oderson, speaking as one would to a child, “Human intellect designed the O₂ factories that made colonization possible; ergo, we are the dominant species.”

The young assistant was gaping at him. He’d obviously been reading the propaganda sheets from the Eco-twits on Hoight1.

Enough was enough. “Had the Martians evolved, they would have been able to cope with the change in atmosphere. As it stands, they’re dead, and we are standing on the richest new colony planet in a hundred years.”

Edgar’s voice quavered, and behind his face screen, Oderson could see the beginnings of tears.

“Two billion life-forms obliterated, Doctor,” he moaned. “To imply that it was their fault somehow …”

“…is exactly how Pop-Control sees things, Edgar. Stop! We’re here.”

Oderson stood at the top of a shallow valley. Lying exposed before them on the scrub were thousands of glimmering gems of all colors and shapes. Despite numerous probes and tests on the surface, there was still no explanation for the phenomenon. Oderson and Johnson were the first humans to see it, and they would hopefully solve the mystery. Regardless, thought Oderson, there’s nobody left to argue about us claiming the lot.

He stooped and picked up a ruby the size of his fist. It felt lighter than expected, not like stone at all. Who cares? he thought. It was worth a fortune.

Without warning, the stone exploded into a mass of jointed legs.

It skittered once around his palm, then sank dagger-like fangs deep into his fingers. The pain was immediate and he went to his knees, swearing.

The field came alive with precious stones scuttling and rasping toward them. Sapphires became giant scarab-like beetles. Diamonds sprouted wings and wicked looking stingers, taking to the air to form a beautiful, deadly cloud. Here and there, clusters of jewels revealed themselves to be immense unnamable insect horrors. The sound of clicking legs and mandibles was deafening.

Cockroaches, thought Oderson, like cockroaches after the nuke.

Edgar fell to the ground, glittering, screaming, and dying.

Large, skinny-legged opal mantids began to claw their way up Oderson’s leg. He slapped at them, and his hand came away studded with tiny onyx ant-things that were already sinking their pincers into him. He cried out and tried, like Edgar, to get away. The swarm surged, as if sensing his desire to flee, and he was covered from the waist down in beautiful, multifaceted death. Trying one more time to get away, he lurched forward, and slipped on the scrabbling things at his feet. He went down, and was instantly engulfed.

As the bugs started to eat him, Oderson’s mind detached. His consciousness started to float above his body. There was no more pain, even as the creatures began to devour his insides.

Staring up at the Martian moon, pale yellow against the darkening sky, he thought again about the survival of the fittest. This time, he thought, we lost.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

“Oh I had a horrible dream where there was a huge dog chasing me and I couldn’t get away and it jumped on me and ripped my dick off then I turned around and I was holding a knife and I stabbed it and stabbed it in the stomach and its intestines poured out and swung around my neck and it was choking me and choking me and I cut its head off but then I was drowning in blood and I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t breathe then I was running again only the whole world was made of bleeding meat and I couldn’t escape and then I knew it was a giant throat and it was swallowing me and I plunged my knife into it again and again and again and finally I saw light and I opened a hole in the meat like being born all over again I squeezed out and oh it was horrible just horrible.”

“It’s all right, dear, it was just a nightmare. It’s not real. There’s no monsters here. You’re fine. It’s all going to be okay.”

Martin cradled the severed head to his breast, kissing it gently on the forehead. “Thank you, dear, you always know just what to say,” and he went back to sleep.

Have you ever seen what pure Sodium can do? It’s fun, isn’t it? The teensiest little scrap will react so quickly when dropped into water, it’ll actually burst into flames. It’s so volatile that you can only buy it immersed in mineral oil. I heard that one time, a particularly precocious student was so impressed with the effect, that they stole the sample they’d been given, and put it in their pocket for mischief later. Once the oil was absorbed by their jeans, the Sodium started reacting in the air, burning a hole in the material, and when it got hold of the moisture in the flesh, it was astonishingly quick. The poor kid had to have a massive chunk of his hip excised, once they put him out, that is.

It goes without saying that, were someone to put it in their mouth, and swallow, or be forced to swallow, the results would be calamitous. In fact, it would probably ruin that someone for any other experiments, unless of course we just used this pinch-sized piece right here. Open wide. I said, “Open wide.”

Sort of brings new meaning to the term “palate cleanser,” hmm?

This, right here, is a ribbon of pure Magnesium. It’s pretty, isn’t it? If you expose this to flame, it flares up and burns extremely fast. Were this to be, say, wrapped around the arm of an investment banker and lit, it would leave a nasty third-degree burn in its wake.

We’d then have to do something about that, which would bring us to this charming little orange bottle of Iodine. This sample is homemade. It’s much stronger than what you get at the pharmacy. It stings a little, but there’s nothing like it for treating a chemical burn.

Silly me, we’re forgetting all about the gases. This one is also homemade, but the recipe goes back almost a hundred years now, World War One, I believe. They called it “Mustard Gas” back then, due to the yellow color. If someone were to open the valve on a glass case that was the current residence of, say, the same investment banker that took his client’s life savings and left town, well then, I’d say he’d get a little itchy under the collar for a while as water blisters started to form all over his flesh. Any “idiotic, pathetic, science teachers” would have to ensure they stepped outside, and made the chamber air-tight first.

Now, if that same investment banker we were talking about, who left town with his client’s money, also left town with his client’s wife? Well, then, we’d also have to talk about this canister over here. I love how simple the markings are on this one, “H.” This valve would flood the glass chamber. It’s great stuff. It does the same thing to your voice as Helium, did you know that? There’s just one slight difference, one that you might be aware of.

If a certain “weak, sorry, excuse for a husband” were to be careless with his cigarette after that, we might not have to worry about this mechanism here, that is based on simple physics. The trigger activates the hammer, which strikes the cordite primer, which launches a small amount of “Plumbum” from this part right here.

You see? So many of my students go away from high school, worrying that nothing they’ve learned will ever apply in the real world. I pity them. If they ever manage to capture the bastards responsible for ruining their lives, the results would be positively mundane.

I’m sorry, I can’t understand you, is there something wrong with your mouth? Ah–I see. You’re sorry. Well, that’s very nice of you. I appreciate the sentiment, but then I did swear revenge, and my word is as good as Gold.

The Kingdom came into being in an instant. From oblivion one moment, the entire society sprung up and started about its business, everyone instinctively knowing their place. It was the resumption of a grand drama.

In the market, Seamus Muldoon had secreted a good sized codfish under his long coat, and was working his way through the crowd. It was the perfect crime, for as close to the ocean as they were, everyone smelled a little of fish.

In the unused western wing of the keep, Sister Marguerite was breaking her vows of chastity with Ronald, the strapping, if a little doltish, baker’s assistant.

Monaghan, the kingdom’s head builder, was reveling in his wealth. He had crews of men all around the kingdom’s walls, which seemed to have always needed more and more shoring up. The salt air was forever (at least that’s what it seemed like) tearing away at the stonework that kept them all secure.

There were a thousand stories, and a thousand lives, all running in harmony when Armageddon began. The sky came crashing down about them. Stinging rain tore through the air, ripping apart buildings, killing passers-by where they stood.

Seamus was just arriving back at his modest hovel with his prize, when the entire building disintegrated before his eyes. As he opened his mouth to protest, the street heaved up in a wave of crushed stone and smothered him instantly.

Marguerite was finally aware that in the last few brief, sweaty moments of life, she had truly seen the meaning of life. She was basking in the glow of her newfound revelations when the tower exploded into a million microscopic atoms.

Monaghan met his end in the most fitting way possible, as his walls, that seemed made to devil him, finally succumbed in their battle with entropy and came down in tumbling waves. Their failure meant the end for anyone that was still living.

Colin, the rakish streetcorner philosopher, gadabout, and sometime minstrel had one last instant before the crush reached him, to think “this will all be back again, and so will we.” And then he was gone.

Miles and miles above the carnage and destruction, the toddler shrieked again with delight, dancing one last time on the sandcastle before running to play with Mommy in the waves.

Edna and Ralph were cozy in the back of his father’s baby-blue Ford Fairlane. Slowly, the car began to rock. Their rhythm seemed to harmonize with the very sounds of nature all around them. Night birds courted among the lush canopy of trees, singing away the last faint rays of light. The golden-rimmed clouds parted, revealing the perfect orb of the full rising moon. An unearthly howl filled the forest then, silencing all. The teenage lovers, lost in the perfect solipsism of young lust, heard nothing but their own haggard breath, moving faster and faster. It took the squeal of preternatural claws rending the metal flesh of the hardtop to jolt them from their…

***

“Carl, this isn’t about werewolves, is it? They’ve been done to death. And teenagers? Next they’ll be meeting up with Laurel and Hardy. This is 3-D we’re launching here. Three-god-damned-D. You’re proposing we waste the single most exciting revolution in moviemaking on the same old shit that we’ve been turning out year after year?”

“People like werewolves, Mr. Anderson.” Carl flushed purple, but had already moved the sheaf of papers to the bottom of a rather impressive stack.

“People liked Nixon at one point, Carl.”

“Point taken, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps we could try something a little different.”

“Yes, different. Now we’re talking.” The portly film exec leaned back in his padded chair. He lit another cigarette from the end of the one he was finishing, and took a drag. “Go ahead, Carl. Wow me.”

***

The new young master of the house arrived early in the day. The stately manor house had been a bequest of his recently departed Uncle Chesterton. Putting aside the bizarrely hostile behavior of the locals, including the rough young gent who’d shown him to the gate, he felt a kinship to the place. There was something in the air here that called to his blood.

It was only later that night, as he was making his way toward the lower chambers, that he got his first inkling of something amiss. All was silent, which was odd, as the house was draughty, and should’ve been a haven for mice and rats.

The chamber at the bottom of the spiraling staircase was shut tight. Alvin put his shoulder to it, and grudgingly, it gave. Upon spying the large oblong box in the corner…

***

“Vampires, huh? That’s different, Carl? You think any self-respecting teenager is going to strap blue and red glasses to his head to sit through… Listen, listen closely, Carl–that sound you’re hearing is Bela Lugosi spinning in his grave and the son-of-a-bitch isn’t even dead yet. And again with the “silent,” we’re making talkies here, Carl. Jesus.”

Flustered, Carl drew in a deep breath, and started muttering. It was so low, it sounded like buzzing.

“What was that, Carl?” The exec was fuming. The meeting was a bust.

The scrawny writer pushed up Coke-bottle glasses and cleared his throat. “I said I’ve got one more.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

***

The moon shone coldly with pale white light. The silence of the desert filled the air with ominous foreboding. In a far-off corner of a crypt, the dust began to stir…

***

“I swear to God, Carl, if it’s fucking mummies, I’ll garrote you with that stupid purple necktie you’re wearing. You’re supposed to be a writing genius, Carl. You’re a HACK!”

Carl was murmuring/buzzing again, but Anderson took no notice. “Why on earth do I pay you? You’re worthless–what’s more… you’re fired. Get out of my sight.”

At this, Carl’s face split in two, and released the monstrous fly-thing that had been using him as a shell. Pincers like scimitars clicked in front of its mouth. Shaking off blood from its wings, it launched itself into the air, and sped toward Anderson. His last thought before his head was snipped from his body was, “Now that’s what I wanted to see.”

“And the Lord banished Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, and did set an Angel with a fiery sword at the gate. And the serpent looked at the Angel and said, “So, what do you want to do now?”
–Genesis 3:23(½)

Quaestor Godwin sat back in his padded chair and sighed. He really would have to be getting on with his day. The coffers of the church would not grow themselves, after all. The monk took a deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut. He exhaled slowly, and smiled.

“That was exquisite, darling woman. Inform your husband that his slights against Mother Church have been forgotten, and in fact…” He gave a shudder of pleasure. “You have procured for him one less year of atonement. Does that please you?”

In response, the young cook’s wife just raised her streaming, red-rimmed eyes, and said nothing.

“Leave me. I have the work of the Lord to do.”

She needed no further coaxing, and ran from the room, as though Satan himself might be at her heels. Godwin allowed himself a small chuckle. It was a dreadful burden being the town’s sole link to the Almighty, but he thought that there were some benefits. He rose then, and straightened his cassock. Time to do his Good Works.

His first visit was to Duke Geoffrey, a man as infamous for his wickedness as he was for his fear of Hell. Godwin had collected an enormous sum from him over the years, and as long as the farms kept producing, he could count on a steady stream of income from the “Duke of Sodomy.” He’d often thought he might like to try that act himself with Anabella, she of the cheeky husband and chaffed kneecaps.

It was to his great surprise that the Duchess Felicia met him at the gate herself.

“Dear Lord in Heaven, you heard our prayers.”

Godwin tried to keep his air of aloof power, “We had planned to meet on this day, did we not, milady?”

“Indeed, Brother Godwin, but something has happened. It is horrible. Words cannot describe; you must come.”

Were it any other family, he would have refused, but to turn his back on the family that had built his fortune would be foolhardy to say the least. He made up his mind. “Lead on, Duchess.”

The Duchess opened the way, and Godwin entered the house. The door slammed shut, crushing her nose, and barring her from entering.

“Hello, Brother Godwin.”

A man’s voice, but not the Duke’s, seemed to be coming from everywhere, and nowhere. The house was freezing, though it was midday outside.

“Come to hear my sins?” There was a gleeful malice in the tone, and the monk looked behind him. Hanging in midair like a macabre puppet was the Duke, eyes rolled up to the whites, blood running from a dozen self-inflicted wounds.

“Welcome, holy man.” The thing mocked him.

“I… I cast you out, demon.” Godwin had to take control. Was he not the servant of the Almighty? “The Lord God of Hosts commands you!”

Braying laughter was the reply. Underneath, Godwin thought he could hear the screaming of the damned. “I think not, Quaestor. Remarkable as it seems, I am closer to God than the likes of you. God requires evil to give himself purpose. I serve that purpose, and who, pray, do you serve?”

The monk felt hot piss soak the front of his cassock.

From the top of the stairs then, a new voice. “Go AWAY!”

The Duke-thing growled in surprise. A red-haired girl, tiny in stature, looked down at them. “God HATES you. Go AWAY. Give me my DADDY back.”

The demon shrieked. The walls shook, and pottery shattered. “God wants you GONE.”

The Duke collapsed to the ground, trembling. In a minute, he was still, breathing heavily. Godwin turned to the girl. “My darling child…”

She snarled back, “He doesn’t like you much, either.”